


Hope Deferred

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Pre-Arrangement, Sumer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-05
Updated: 2003-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley continues his plan in Sumer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Deferred

Crowley lay back against the city wall, stretching his legs out before him. He was exhausted. Too many people packed into a small city, and everyone’s favourite vegetable was onions. He was seriously considering heading out into the desert for a few months just for a bit of peace. A shadow fell across him, and he looked up incuriously.

“Hello, there,” the girl said. “You look all alone. Do you want some company?”

He looked away, bored.

“No. Get lost.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. My, but you’re a fine tall fellow. Fancy a quickie?”

“Do I look like I want the clap? Get lost, I said.”

“How dare you! I’m a clean girl!” she said. “I don’t have the clap!”

She walked off, her nose in the air, looking for the next customer.

“You do now,” Crowley muttered viciously after her.

He hated humans, he decided. The whole unwashed, evil smelling, belching, farting lot of them. And what was their fascination with onions? He’d never found a single culture that didn’t eat the things if they were available. He’d earnestly hoped that things would have been different after the Flood, but oh no, onions made it through. At least grapes had made it as well, he thought, levering himself upright. Time for a drink.

Sitting in a tavern, he flung back the most expensive imported wine the landlady had to offer. The locals were drinking beer, or date wine if they could afford it. The stuff was too sweet for him, unless he’d already managed to deaden his tastebuds. He looked round the clientele in distaste. Maybe he’d make it rain, give them all a shower. He sniggered into the wine at the thought. It was a pity this was the dry season. A sudden rainstorm would attract all the wrong sort of attention. No, he’d have to amuse himself some other way. He winked at the prettiest girl who worked out of the tavern.

“Hey, sweetheart, d’you have the clap?”

She sniffed, tossed her ringlets, and avoided him. The stuck up cow always avoided him. Right. A nice strong dose all round, so. A few moments later everyone in the tavern was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Crowley giggled so hard he thought he’d spill his wine. Now, there was a thought. If the landlady and her girls went out of business he’d have to find someone else to import his drinks. Bugger. He made a gesture and fixed everyone up again. Most people still looked a little uncomfortable, but it was all in their heads. Well, it had been fun while it lasted. The landlady brought his dinner out herself. Lovely. Lentil and onion stew with a side order of fried onions. And garlic bread. He sighed and started eating.

“What’s wrong with you this evening?” the landlady asked.

“Bored, that’s all. Business seems good, Shamshara.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “We’ve got a new dancer in from the north. A genuine Babylonian. Over there, that’s her.”

“If she’s Babylonian, I’m an evil spirit. You were diddled.”

Shamshara looked at him angrily.

“What do you mean?”

“That accent? Sounds more like she’s from Eridu to me. Eridu’s not very exotic, is it? And don’t tell me that’s her natural hair colour.”

Shamshara drew breath, and looked over at the new girl. Crowley gave her a little nudge towards out and out suspicion. Then he sat back to enjoy the catfight. The Babylonian girl won the battle but lost the war, and was thrown out on the street. When he passed her later, Crowley suggested she try a different type of establishment, seeing as she was looking a bit beaten up. One where the customers liked that sort of thing. She looked horrified, but had to admit she knew no one, and wasn’t likely to get her hands on any of her earnings in Shamshara’s place. She unhappily asked directions, and trudged away. Crowley walked off, a spring in his step. Another horrid human life ruined.

He wandered round the city all night, doing his best to make life nasty. Encourage a bit of burglary here, a spot of adultery there, and before you knew it, it was morning again. His daytime schedule was more or less the same as the night-time one, only with more people round. He encouraged a man to beat his donkey to death, and had a good laugh when the fellow realised he had no way of getting his goods to market, and no way of affording another donkey.

“Sell a few of your brats,” Crowley whispered in his ear. “To brothels.”

He flung himself through the curtains on a rich woman’s litter, sprawling beside her. Ah-ha. A priestess. She reclined there, oblivious to his presence, full of what passed for holy thoughts in these parts.

“Don’t you ever get tired of celibacy?” he smiled, playing with the fringes on her dress. “Why don’t you find a nice looking slave who still has his prick and balls? Amuse yourself, who’d ever find out?”

She looked like a very interesting idea had crept into her mind. Her patted her on the backside, and slipped out the other side of the litter. He strolled down the crowded street and kicked an out of work labourer hard.

“Hey, you. All your problems are due to the inequitable division of material wealth in this society. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and unionisation isn’t a word I can actually say in your language. The rich deserve everything that’s coming to them. Kill a few of them tonight, ok?”

The labourer looked with insane hatred at a wealthy man walking past, bags of shopping held by the slave behind him. Crowley gave careful directions to the wealthy man’s house, and went on his way. At lunchtime he did his best not to eat any member of the onion family. Then he went back out into the streets and started all over again, until by late afternoon he was sprawled against the city wall, aching feet in front of him.

“I am sick to death of this,” he muttered. “I should make the bloody earth open up and swallow this bloody place.”

He closed his eyes, happily drifting off to a daydream of Uruk going down bodily to Hell. That would have to rack up a few brownie points. A shadow fell across him.

“I said, get lost,” he snarled.

“I’ve only just arrived and you want rid of me already?”

Crowley’s eyes flew open. Oh, shit. He came to his feet in an inhuman movement and punched the angel hard on the nose. Aziraphale staggered back, grabbed at an awning pole for support, then swung the thing round and clipped Crowley neatly on the temple with it. Crowley went down; feeling very much like the headache meant his skull was badly fractured. He was seeing a bright light. After a second he realised it was Aziraphale.

“Turn that blessed halo off,” he moaned. “I’m dying, you bastard.”

He was pulled to his feet. He felt a hand touching the horribly soft side of his head, and immediately felt much better.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Crawly. You’re fine.”

Crowley squinted at the angel. The bastard had healed him. That was . . . different. And Aziraphale was just standing there, something suspiciously like a smile on his face. Apart from the awning pole still held ready in his hand, he looked like he wasn’t interested in a fight. Crowley decided he wasn’t much interested in one either. He was tired. And fed up. And taken aback to have the angel standing in front of him.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t help but notice quite a lot of demonic mischiefmaking in the area.”

“OK,” Crowley said. “I’ll go.”

He hid his elation. His superiors couldn’t complain if he was _driven_ out of this place. He began to plan. Should he go to another city on the River? Maybe head up north? Or Egypt – now there was an idea. Aziraphale was saying something totally uninteresting, no doubt about him being a vile evil creature who should be ashamed of himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, terrible,” Crowley said, not listening. He stopped, mentally replayed the boring lecture he was sure he’d been receiving.

“Pardon me?”

“I was wondering if you could recommend a decent place for dinner?” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley gingerly felt the side of his head. He must have been hit harder than he realised. Never trust an angel to heal you up properly, he thought. Aziraphale was still standing there, expectantly.

“I . . . do know a place,” Crowley said finally. “But you have to like onions and not mind that it’s full of tarts.”

* * *

Crowley peered at Aziraphale over the top of his cup. The angel smiled cheerily back at him and mopped up his lentil and onion stew with the nasty garlic bread Shamshara insisted on making specially. Well. This was weird. He needed more alcohol to deal with this, and the jug was almost empty. He looked round and gave a piercing whistle at the prettiest girl. She gave him her usual evil glare and ignored him. Stuck up cow.

“Em, excuse me, miss?” Aziraphale called politely.

“Yes?” she asked, coming over.

“Could we have some more of this wine, please? When you have a moment.”

“Right away, sir,” she said, and headed for the storeroom.

“She spoke to you,” Crowley said, astonished. “She never speaks to me. Hey! You never speak to me!” he yelled after her.

“I’m not surprised,” Aziraphale said. “Not if your usual greeting is ‘hello, sweetheart, got the clap yet?’”

“That’s just a joke,” Crowley muttered. It did seem a bit stupid when someone else said it, he thought.

The girl came back out with the wine.

“Here you are, sir. Will there be anything else?”

Crowley’s inventive reply turned into a squawk as Aziraphale stepped on his foot. The girl tried to kill him with a look again, and slipped away to drum up business.

“What did you do that for? She’s only a bloody tart,” Crowley said.

“There was no need to be unpleasant,” Aziraphale said sternly. “The poor girl has to survive.”

“Why are you even here?” Crowley said in irritation.

Aziraphale looked vaguely surprised.

“I thought you said you wanted to go for a drink?”

Crowley thought about that for a while.

“That was _seventy years ago_ ,” he said finally. Stupid angelic sense of time. The bastard had probably looked in his diary, thought ‘oh, I can fit in a quick pint in a few decades.’

“I had to think about it,” Aziraphale said. “Would you like dessert?”

“Wait. Are you buying?” Crowley asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, looking a little apprehensive.

“Shamshara! Bring us the whole blessed jar of wine and some honey cakes!” Crowley yelled.

  
* * *

  
“N’I saidt’him, ‘whyn’t y’start nimprilistic ennerprise, y’daft twit?’” Crowley said, staggering round the empty square.

“Oh, wunnered why that war shtarted,” Aziraphale said vaguely.

Crowley tried to get his thoughts in order. He was drunk. The angel was drunk. They had drunk an awful lot of expensive wine. He felt he was doing quite well with the analysis so far. Now they were discussing politics. That came with being drunk, he knew. _Everyone_ , humans, demons, angels, discusses politics when drunk. Politics, he thought blearily. Politics. Ah.

“Heaven’s full of wankers,” he proclaimed proudly.

“S’not,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“OK. Not full all the way, s’missin’ one drunk wanker, so,” Crowley grinned.

He staggered round some more laughing at Aziraphale’s face. Ah, buggrit, this was all too strange for him. Wasn’t right. He turned the stagger into a slither and flung himself on the rather surprised angel.

At the other side of the square the beggar’s eyes widened in shock. The drunken argument had woken him, and he’d been debating whether or not to give the two idiots a piece of his mind. Then one of them had moved in some nightmarish way like his joints weren’t restricted to the normal pattern, and jumped the other one. Who had staggered back and tried frantically to regain balance. It almost looked like he’d opened a massive pair of shining – the beggar blinked. The square was silent and empty. Just a dream, the whole thing. He pulled his tattered blanket back over his head and tried to get back to sleep.

Crowley landed hard on his back. Aziraphale landed quite hard on him and banged his head off the ground a few times. Ow. Ow. And knelt on his arms, the heavy bastard. Ow. This was not one of Crowley’s better fights, he felt.

“What _is_ the matter with you?” Aziraphale asked, breathing hard. “What brought that on?”

Crowley peered up at him. The angel seemed to be sober, so he got rid of the wine as well. He waited for his neck to be broken, or at the very least a few good wallops. Aziraphale just glared down at him, apparently waiting for an answer.

“It seemed like the usual thing to do,” he said. “I mean, why did you have dinner with me? Why talk to me? We don’t talk.”

“You’re the one who asked me to come for a drink,” Aziraphale said. “I should have known it was just one of your stupid tricks. To think I felt sorry for you.”

Crowley relaxed all his muscles. Oh-ho. Aha. That. He looked solemnly up at Aziraphale, and tried to remember how to do a proper blink. No, he was too much out of practice. He settled for letting his gaze slowly slide away, closing his eyes, and swallowing heavily. _No tears yet_ , he told himself. _Don’t lard it on too much._

“You felt sorry for me?” he whispered.

“You did seem a little upset. I was worried about your state of mind,” Aziraphale said. “I can see you’ve recovered, though.”

Crowley allowed himself a tiny little sniff, and the most convincing sad expression he could muster. He opened his eyes, and let just the beginnings of tears form.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said.

Aziraphale looked dubiously at him, but let him up. Crowley sat on the ground, a sad and lonely demon, staring into nothing, and keeping the giggles well down. He sniffed again, brushed away a tear. Bugger, still wasn’t confident about blinking. A hand rested gently on his shoulder.

“Crawly? Are you all right?”

Crowley made an impulsive decision. Go for everything now, don’t string the angel along. One big play that he wouldn’t be expecting. He burst into loud tears, and flung himself into Aziraphale's arms. There was a moment of resistance, and then a tentative pat on his back.

“Er. Um. There, there.”

Crowley clung on, weeping hard, and letting broken nonsensical words leak out. Inside, elation was building. His plan was going to work. It had just taken a little longer to get going than he’d thought. The angel _had_ come looking for him, _had_ been the one to bring that regrettable incident up. Stupid, soft-hearted Aziraphale, who was now murmuring stupid comforting phrases and stupidly hugging him back. _Right_ , Crowley thought. _That’s enough._ By now he should be embarrassed at his behaviour. He was a little annoyed to find it was harder to stop crying than it was to start, but finally disengaged himself from the angel’s embrace and sat back, wiping his nose and eyes, looking shamefaced. He was delighted to see that Aziraphale's eyes were suspiciously bright, and the angel was quite definitely sniffly.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“That’s all right, dear chap,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Why don’t we get out of the dust? You could show me this city.”

He clambered up, held a hand down to Crowley, who let himself be helped to his feet. Aziraphale gave him a smile, which he shakily returned, and then he followed the angel out of the square. He grinned at the angel’s back. Hell would make mincemeat of this one.

  
* * *

  
Operation Consign Aziraphale to Eternal Damnation was off to a good start, Crowley thought. A slow and subtle start, just the way he liked things to go. So far, it consisted of trailing round after the angel and listening to a wealth of self-satisfied drivel about the innate goodness of creation. Crowley listened eagerly, nodding in agreement and generally acting like someone whose very new super-best-friend is the best thing in their life. Even when Aziraphale put forward the possibility of returning good for evil Crowley just reacted as if he’d never heard such a fascinating suggestion, and could Aziraphale explain it some more and was there any literature he could have a look at? He had the angel fooled, and it felt _great_. He had all sorts of little sins he was pushing on Aziraphale with great success. Honey cakes, for example. He’d never seen a supernatural being with such a sweet tooth. Absolutely no effort was needed to tempt Aziraphale into a spot of gluttony if there were honey cakes around. Wine as well. Crowley felt it was probably beneath an angel’s dignity to get quite so drunk quite so often. He also felt it was bloody funny. And books. He remembered Aziraphale in Ur, with all those clay tablets. He tried the effect of mentioning he knew where the library was in the E-ana and how to get in there quietly. The light of covetousness in Aziraphale's eyes had been a marvel to behold. So had the way the angel had insisted on a spot of breaking and entering that very night. Crowley could practically feel the commendation winging its way towards him.

It was just a pity he had to neglect his other duties. He could hardly put on a convincing show of gratefully palling around with an angel and blatantly tempt and torment humans at the same time. He’d worked that out the moment he saw the look on the angel’s face after he stuck a foot out in front of a heavily pregnant woman. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the humour in that at all, not even when he explained it wasn’t her husband’s baby. And he should know, seeing as he was the one who had suggested she should go into the back room with her neighbour in the first place. He’d behaved himself after that, and had put up with interminable lectures on decent behaviour and respecting ladies. So Uruk was getting a comparatively easy ride at the moment. All the nastiness within the walls was purely human. Crowley had to admit they were pretty good at it too. Filthy creatures.

After two weeks, Crowley was wishing he could just slit Aziraphale’s throat. He was being driven insane. The angel insisted they pay for their food and drink, gave charitable donations to beggars and healed the sick every chance he got. Worse, he was making noises about Crowley doing likewise.

“I can’t heal the sick,” Crowley said, aghast.

“How do you know? Have you tried?”

“That’s not the point! I’m not _meant_ to, that’s the point! I can’t go around doing good, I have an image to maintain!”

“I can think of more important images,” Aziraphale said in his insufferably smug way, looking meaningfully Upwards.

Crowley had gone off to sulk, and then full of curiosity had put his hand on the most repulsively disfigured beggar he could find, and said “be whole”. He was so startled by the result that he ran away and hid for the rest of the day. That sort of thing shouldn’t work. Not for him. There was no way he was telling Aziraphale.

  
* * *

  
Crowley knew he’d been right. Aziraphale was lonely, he was sure of it. The angel had been hanging round him for weeks now, all smiles and paying for drinks. Crowley knew the signs of someone who felt very much alone and was reassuring themselves that there was someone who’d put up with them. He had tested his hypothesis by casually putting an arm round Aziraphale’s shoulders one day. The look of pathetic gratitude the angel had tried to hide had been very gratifying. Crowley wondered what would happen if he manoeuvred him into some emotional corner and made the bastard cry. He’d probably be so glad his pal Crowley was there to comfort him that he’d agree to some really big sin.

They sat on the roof-parapet of the lugal’s house, legs dangling, a half-eaten bunch of dates discarded beside them. Aziraphale was droning on and on about poetry he’d been reading. Crowley made encouraging noises to keep him talking, keep him off-guard while he came up with a plan to make him cry. The angel began to recite a poem at length, making Crowley smile at the thought that at least he wouldn’t have to contribute anything to the conversation for a while. He could just sit here, eyes closed, basking in the pleasant heat of the late afternoon sun, listening to the quiet voice beside him.

“ –ly? Crawly, are you listening?”

He opened his eyes in fright to find he was leaning heavily on Aziraphale. His head felt unaccountably muzzy and he was unpleasantly surprised to find that he seemed to have been drooling. He shoved himself upright. The angel was looking at him oddly.

“I particularly enjoyed the images of luminosity as a metaphor for divine grace,” Crowley said automatically.

He felt he was on safe ground with that, given the sort of poetry Aziraphale seemed fond of. The angel smiled and went on with the recitation. Crowley surreptitiously rubbed his eyes. What had happened? The sun had moved down the sky, and the shadows were longer than he remembered. It was unnerving. He kept his eyes firmly open for the rest of the evening.

  
* * *

  
Crowley learned to hold his tongue when Aziraphale insisted on interfering, or as he put it ‘intervening’ in purely human naughtiness. When they saw a perfectly fine mugging in the marketplace, Crowley was made chase the mugger and retrieve the necklace he had stolen. Giving the man a good kicking for getting caught did little to improve his humour, which plummeted further when he saw whom they’d rescued. The stuck up cow from Shamshara’s place. At least she was shaken and bruised. She snatched the necklace out of Crowley’s hands and avoided his eyes. He did his best to silently intimidate her as Aziraphale patted her hands and asked if she was sure she was all right. When the angel started asking her if she was sure she was in the right line of business he had to walk away in disgust. When he came back Aziraphale was extremely pleased with himself and cheerily announced that the dear girl would be working as an embroideress to one of the great families from now on. Crowley rolled his eyes. The little tart would be turning tricks with the servants before the week was out, but why ruin Aziraphale’s good mood? Aziraphale gave him a pitying look.

“Another year or so, and she won’t be bringing as many customers in, and then she’ll be out on the street,” he said. “Now she’ll be able to support herself for life.”

“She’s just a bloody tart,” Crowley muttered.

“She’s not ‘just’ anything. She’s a human soul, and therefore important.”

Crowley couldn’t help it. He made a rude noise. Aziraphale looked at him in disappointment.

“You don’t think humans are important?”

“I think they’re a useless, smelly waste of space. They’re repulsive, I can't stand them.”

Aziraphale made a ‘hmmm’ noise, and headed off meaningfully. Crowley winced. He couldn’t have just blown it, could he? He trotted after the angel, and found to his relief, that he was merely getting another lecture. All day they walked around, with the good things about humans being pointed out to him. Parents and children. Lovers. Charity to the destitute. Compassion to animals. It made him feel quite ill. By night-time he’d decided he not only hated humans, but he hated the whole world as well. When the angel had sufficiently annoyed him, he announced his belief that the whole world was a heap of shit, and he wished it had never been created. Aziraphale looked at him calmly.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. If it wasn’t here we could both be where we belong.”

He immediately regretted saying it, but it was too late. Aziraphale was going to try to prove him wrong, he knew it. And he’d have to play along if he didn’t want the angel to leave Uruk in a huff. Which was why he found himself meekly submitting to being led around the city with his eyes closed. When they started climbing flight after flight of stairs, he knew where they were going, and knew he’d worked out Aziraphale’s plan as well. He waited till they reached the top before speaking, seeing as Aziraphale was sounding a bit out of breath.

“I know where we are, there’s no point in pretending,” Crowley said. “We’re on the E-ana ziggurat.”

“Of course we’re on the ziggurat,” Aziraphale said. “I’d be very surprised if you didn’t know. Keep your eyes closed!”

Crowley was moved around, as if Aziraphale was deciding on the best spot.

“Are we breaking into the high priestess’ quarters?” he asked, grinning evilly.

“Behave.”

“You’re no fun at all, Aziraphale, you know that?”

 _I know your stupid sentimental plan_ , he thought. _And I will not be impressed. No way, no how._

Finally Aziraphale told him to open his eyes. The sun was rising, as he knew it would be. _Yes, yes, lovely view, Aziraphale_ , he thought. Did the angel really think this’d impress him? He took a good long look over the city. The sun rose higher, and the River became a wide band of gold. The light made Uruk seem a magical place. Down in the streets people were beginning to move around, small figures like intricate marvellous toys. From up here you couldn’t smell the stinks of human and animal life, couldn’t see the inventive ways they had in making life unpleasant for each other. For a brief moment Uruk seemed like a wonderful doll’s house where the dolls had come to life and were carrying out their fascinating little lives unaware of being observed. It was like a huge puzzle he wanted to solve, but couldn’t, not yet. He felt a strange, helpless feeling in his chest as he looked at the tiny figures, the shining water, and the maze of streets.

“The whole earth is full of His glory,” Aziraphale said softly in his ear.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathed.

He shook himself. That was _not_ a sentiment he wanted to get caught voicing. It was beautiful, though. Aziraphale patted his shoulder.

“It’s worth something, Crawly. It’s important.”

  
* * *

That night Aziraphale was acting suspiciously, shifting round, clearing his throat, and not making eye contact. Crowley felt remarkably annoyed. The angel should be willing to say anything to him at this stage, not sit there squirming like a naughty child. Maybe he felt inhibited by the humans in the tavern. Crowley stood up.

“Come on, then. Let’s go for a walk.”

Aziraphale trailed after him. Crowley led him up onto the city walls. The elders of Uruk liked to boast that you could drive a four-horse chariot along the top of them. How you’d get a four-horse chariot up the stairs Crowley had never worked out. A guardsman slumbered at his post, leaning on his spear. Crowley restrained himself from pushing the idiot down into the street. Aziraphale made vague comments about how bright the stars were this night in the firmament of the heavens and what a pity it was that the people of the Land tended to worship them. Crowley feigned interest, and pointed out the constellations.

“Erm,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley waited politely.

“Um,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley smiled encouragingly.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley began to count to ten in all the languages he knew.

“In Ur,” Aziraphale said, and stopped. He took a deep breath and started again. “You took me rather by surprise. I, eh, didn’t believe you. I was, um, rather convinced it was all one of your tricks, you know. But I thought about it, and – you were really upset, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley said evenly. “I was.”

“I’m glad I came to Uruk,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’m, um, glad to have had the chance to get to know you a bit better, Crawly. You’re not such a bad fellow, for a demon.”

“You’re not so bad for an angel,” Crowley said, not at all sarcastically.

Aziraphale smiled, a little desperately. Crowley watched with interest. It looked like someone was teetering on some edge or other.

“I – it’s hard, sometimes,” Aziraphale said. “Have you made new human friends since then?”

“No. I couldn’t bear it,” Crowley said, so very sincere.

“Me neither,” Aziraphale said. He looked very sad, Crowley was delighted to see. “I feel – very alone. Sometimes.” He was suddenly crying. “Everytime I get used to someone they _die_ , Crawly.”

Crowley let his expression go sympathetic and sorrowful. _That’s it, break down, you bastard._

“I won’t die,” he said.

He opened his arms and was nearly knocked over. He couldn’t understand a single blessed word Aziraphale was saying. Poor miserable angel, clinging on to his damnation. He closed his eyes, pictured the torments awaiting his opponent. Lost and lonely and terrified for all eternity, he thought as he made quiet shushing noises and stroked Aziraphale's hair. Much, much worse than he was feeling right now. Being lost and lonely up here was practically a holiday compared to how you felt down there. He held on tighter. It was quite an image, Aziraphale in Hell. Being fallen was no fun, the poor bastard. No one to hold onto down there. He became aware that the angel was trying to get loose, but was finding it difficult. He let go and had a good look at Aziraphale's dishevelled, tear-streaked face. The angel wiped his eyes and gave him a tremulous smile.

“You’re very kind,” Aziraphale sniffled. “I never knew a demon could be so kind.”

Crowley tried to think of something really awful that he could get Aziraphale to do while he was still vulnerable like this. The thought of how terrified the angel would be when he fell kept getting in the way. It didn’t seem as appealing as it had done a century ago or even a couple of weeks ago. His own face was wet, Crowley realised in some distress. Bloody stupid material body. He was furious with himself suddenly, and furious with Aziraphale. How could the fool be so _stupid_?

“Don’t be such an idiot!” he screamed. “Don’t you know what I _want_?”

Aziraphale took a step back, blinking in surprise.

“No,” he said. “What do you want, Crawly?”

Crowley glared at him. He wanted to punch Aziraphale hard. He wanted Aziraphale to hit him, so there’d be an excuse to fight. He wanted the angel out of his way. He wanted that blessed commendation. He wanted someone else to have to fall because they hung round with the wrong, lying bastards. He wanted to be on the winning side for once. He wanted to cry. Well, his bloody body seemed to be ahead of him on that one, at least. What a stupid, unpleasant reaction, he thought as his nose clogged up completely and his eyes stung with tears. Bloody angel. Why did he have to turn out to be so _polite_ and _nice_ and _friendly_? Crowley didn’t approve of being polite and nice and friendly. No one was ever polite or nice or friendly to him.

“ _I want_ ,” he hissed in outright fury. “I _want_ –.”

The angel was looking at him like he’d gone mad. Crowley felt he might be right, as the tears threatened to turn into hysterical laughter. If Aziraphale touched him, he’d lose it completely. Why couldn’t the bastard bugger off and leave him to be alone? Or stay hanging around and recite more of that interminable poetry to him? Why couldn’t they be getting drunk right now instead of having this conversation? He wanted – he wanted – he struggled for breath, drew a shuddering gasp.

“I want you to call me ‘Crowley’,” he said, fast, before he could change his mind. “I don’t use ‘Crawly’ any more and I never liked it anyway.”

“All right. Sure,” Aziraphale said warily. “You should have said earlier. I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about it.”

Crowley forced himself not to cry, or laugh, or scream. To Hell with everything. Or not to Hell, more to the point. He made himself smile a nice, polite, friendly, normal smile.

“Sorry. I’m all right now. I guess we’re both a bit strung out.”

Aziraphale patted his arm wordlessly. Crowley felt elation building again, and grinned. It wasn’t the way he felt when he’d just done something awful, but the far more addictive way he felt when he was about to do something very dangerous.

“Friends?” he said, and held out a hand.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said smiling, shaking it.

  
* * *

  
“I really should go check on some of the other cities,” Aziraphale said. “I didn’t really mean to stay here this long.”

“A year’s not that long,” Crowley said, refilling the angel’s cup.

“Still. You know what they get like without proper supervision.”

“Yeah, they start developing all sorts of crazy ideas about justice and Upstairs being keen on protecting the poor. Madness. Really should be stamped out at an early stage.”

“You really are incorrigible, aren’t you?”

Crowley smiled a perfectly innocent smile and held out the plate.

“You’ll miss Shamshara’s honey cakes.”

“There _are_ more important things,” Aziraphale said, taking three.

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“Babylon first of all. Then over to Aššur, I don’t like the way those people think public impaling is the perfect response to political debate.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I haven’t been there for ages.”

They drank in silence a long while. Shamshara rebuked Aziraphale for spilling wine on the beautifully embroidered cloth under their tray. Didn’t he know she’d paid good money for that? Made by an embroideress to one of the great families, that was.

“I was thinking of heading way up north to Mari, myself,” Crowley said. “I’d be taking the Babylon road, of course.”

Aziraphale made a non-committal sort of noise.

“I knew a nice little pub in Babylon,” Crowley said nonchalantly. “I wonder if it’s still there?”

“It’s a long way to Mari,” Aziraphale said casually. “It would make sense to break your journey.”

“When were you thinking of setting out?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, some time soon. It is a long walk, after all. It’ll take ages to get there.”

“We do have plenty of time,” Crowley said wryly.

“We do at that,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Time for another round, then?” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale grinned back. It was still a surprisingly welcome sight.

“ _Shamshara!_ ” they both yelled.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hope deferred makes the heart sick,  
but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life (Proverbs 13:12)


End file.
